


The Watch Chain

by tinzelda



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 02:07:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes sinks into a very black mood, and Watson bitterly resents having to come to the rescue. (This ain't my usual cup of tea - maybe not dark in the grand scheme of fic, but very angsty for me.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Watch Chain

**Author's Note:**

> A heartfelt thank you to luzula for extremely helpful and insightful beta work. I appreciate all of the encouraging feedback so much.

“The post’s come, Dr. Watson.”

Watson looked up to see the new housemaid standing shyly by the door. She was staring at the floor, and her cheeks were flushed.

“Thank you, Sally,” he answered. He smiled at her, though she did not look up to see it, and stood to take the envelopes. The moment her hand was empty she turned and fled from the room, leaving the door standing open.

Watson closed the door himself, shaking his head. Mrs. Phillips had her work cut out for her with this new girl. Watson could not understand why it seemed they could not keep a housemaid. He was a generous employer, Mrs. Phillips ran the house in an orderly fashion, and although some might call her stern, she was not unkind.

The post offered a surprise: a large envelope of rich, ivory paper addressed in an elegant female hand. Watson studied the sweeping lines of ink for several moments before he remembered that there was no one to quiz him on what he might deduce from the quality of the paper or the handwriting upon it—he had only to open up the envelope, and he would learn everything he needed to know.

The letter was from a Mrs. Edgar Richmond. Watson recognized the name: she was a wealthy widow, influential in the neighborhood. Her own doctor was retiring and had advised that she speak first to his young colleague Dr. Watson when deciding upon a new physician.

His practice would expand by leaps and bounds with Mrs. Richmond as a patient. She had a hand in nearly every charity committee one could name and exchanged visits with families of note all over London. Watson imagined Mrs. Richmond mentioning his name over teacups and bridge tables. This could bring him dozens of new patients, all prosperous and eager to act on Mrs. Richmond’s recommendation. This could make him.

Mary would have understood without his having to explain. She would have known as well as he precisely what acquiring Mrs. Richmond’s patronage could do for his practice, what a huge step it would be toward building the life they had imagined.

Longing stabbed into Watson’s belly. He thought of Mary, before she had fallen ill, so beautiful and hopeful. Her relief at peeling off her corset at the end of each day, the red lines pressed into her fair skin by its seams. Her arms had grown more plump, and her breasts had already begun to feel heavier in his hands.

They would whisper together in the nest of quilts on their bed, delighting in their secret. Mary had insisted, over and over: John H. Watson, Jr. “But what if it’s a girl?” Watson had teased. He had seen a drawing of Mary as a toddler and liked the thought of a daughter. He found it easier somehow to imagine a little girl about the house than a boy, but Mary would not consider the possibility. She would only laugh, and kiss him, and tuck her face into the crook of his neck.

He wished he could recall that time in their lives without also remembering what came after. The fever had claimed Mary so quickly—Watson’s only consolation was that she had been too far gone to mourn when she lost the baby.

Watson rose from his chair, trying to clear his head, and crossed to the mantel to fetch a match for his cigarette. After a long drag, he stared at the fire, forgetting the cigarette until it burned down and singed his fingers.

He was disgusted with himself, wallowing in painful memories. He should answer Mrs. Richmond’s letter. It was always a help to keep himself busy. 

He pulled his watch out of his pocket by its chain, already composing his response. It was only just past eleven o’clock. Perhaps he could write a respectable answer in time for the afternoon post. He could not imagine how the resulting letter could be anything but fawning, and the idea embarrassed him, but he would write it just the same.

*****

A knock interrupted Watson’s third draft of the letter. When Sally opened the door, Watson was astonished to see Mrs. Hudson. His surprise quickly turned to concern. Surely this was not a social call.

The moment the study door was closed behind her, Mrs. Hudson clutched at Watson’s arm. “Oh, Doctor, I’m so sorry to disturb you.”

“Not at all,” Watson said in his best professionally soothing manner. He guided her to the armchair by the fire. “Please, I—”

“I’m at my wit’s end. I didn’t want to trouble you, but I don’t know where else to turn. I went to see Inspector Lestrade, and he all but laughed in my face, the wretched little man.” Mrs. Hudson’s voice had grown too loud, and she stopped suddenly.

Watson was shocked to see her pull a handkerchief from her sleeve and dab at her eyes. He perched on the edge of his desk, trying to be patient, ignoring the panic clawing at the back of his mind. Once she had collected herself, she continued more calmly.

“I gathered that the inspector has had one too many of Mr. Holmes’ smart remarks. They haven’t worked together in months, and I know he hasn’t been taking clients at home—the letters have piled up. He doesn’t even look at them. And he’s been… ill… much more often since he returned.”

Mrs. Hudson was skirting the issue of Holmes’ syringe. Watson knew that she did not approve of Holmes’ use of cocaine any more than he did himself. It was unbearable: the disconnected vacancy one could see in his eyes when the drug had a hold on him. Every spark of his famous intellect extinguished, leaving behind only a frantic energy, rattling itself into exhaustion.

“He hasn’t been in his rooms—hasn’t set foot in the house in a fortnight.”

Watson forced himself to think logically. “Perhaps he is occupied with a case after all? Something sensitive that must be kept secret. He might have gone abroad.”

“But he took nothing with him, not his violin, not even a change of linen.”

Mrs. Hudson’s face was drawn, her eyes tired. Watson could not explain away her fears.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Watson said.

“Thank you, Doctor.” Mrs. Hudson leaned over to touch his arm once more. “Thank you.”

*****

It had been a long time since Watson had walked the city’s poorer districts, having spent the last several years rarely leaving their Kensington neighborhood. His daily routine, and Mary’s, had rarely taken them more than a few blocks from the house: their small circle of acquaintances, Watson’s patients, the church where they had been married, and the local shops. He was no longer inured to the terrible things one saw walking through the darker, dirtier streets and now felt assaulted by them.

As he walked, studying every face around him for a hint of Holmes in disguise, he continually felt the urge to help. He saw a pair of boys begging on the step of an abandoned building. One of them had eyes swollen and red with some kind of infection. A young mother walked by carrying her infant, a possibly tubercular cough racking her every breath.

Watson thought of his comfortable study: lamplight gleaming on the polished wood of his desk and the fire crackling cheerfully. It seemed a surreal, impossible setting when contrasted with the squalour in which Watson now found himself. He longed to be there. The rest of the world seemed like too much to manage.

Well into his third day of searching, Watson was beginning to despair. He had found no useful information in Holmes’ mess of papers, and visiting his old haunts had resulted in nothing but a unrelenting ache in Watson’s bad leg.

When he remembered Mrs. Hudson’s expression, however, Watson could not stop. She was a sensible woman and accustomed to Holmes’ vagaries—if she was concerned, it was with good reason. And Watson knew himself well enough to understand that if he did indeed return home, he would not be able to rest. His worry would keep him awake.

If sleep was out of the question at present, he should at least make himself eat something. He looked up and down the street to get his bearings, hoping to see an establishment that looked somewhat reputable. There were a few stalls at the next corner that looked promising, and Watson began to walk toward them.

As he stepped off the kerb, a raggedly dressed boy barreled out of the nearby alley, running smack into Watson. He put out his hands to prevent the boy from falling, and for a moment they stared at one another, the boy’s eyes wide. Then the boy pulled away, mumbled an apology, and bolted away.

Watson suddenly felt wetness seeping into his right shoe—when the boy had bumped into him, it had pushed him partly into the gutter. With a sigh, Watson pulled his foot out of the muck and scraped as much of it as he could off his shoe onto the pavement.

Two more hours, he told himself. He would find himself some supper and then keep trying for two more hours before he would go home. He lied to himself that if he did not find Holmes in that time, he would not continue. He would not cancel another day of appointments with his patients. He would not exhaust himself yet again wandering all over the city, chasing someone who clearly did not want to be found.

*****

“I’ve seen ‘im, all right,” the pubkeeper said through crooked yellow teeth. “Third floor. You’ll be doin’ me a favour if you drag ‘im out of ‘ere. Ain’t paid but for one night and been ‘ere near a week.”

Watson pulled some coins out of this pocket. “Does the rate include board as well?” He looked down at the remnants of a meal on the table next to him: some kind of stew, the grease congealing in white lumps among the brown streaks of gravy on the plate. He did not bother to conceal his distaste.

“No, wouldn’t eat a thing.”

After paying the man, Watson climbed the creaking stairs to the third floor. There was only one door leading off the landing, and it was locked. Watson crouched to investigate—it seemed to be a simple enough lock. He slid his hand into his jacket to find his pocketknife, but it was not there.

Watson remembered the collision on the street corner a few hours before, the boy’s grubby hands grasping at the fabric of his coat. He did not begrudge the loss—the boy certainly needed the money he would earn from the sale far more than Watson could ever need the knife himself. It merely added to Watson’s feeling of foolishness and became another annoyance to add to the growing list of complaints against Holmes.

At any rate, picking the lock might be unnecessary. Watson stood and pushed his shoulder against the flimsy door. It gave easily, only dislodging a few splinters from the door jamb.

He saw Holmes immediately in the cold, dark little room, curled on his side on a narrow bed on the opposite wall. Even as Watson crossed the room, he was taking inventory of Holmes’ person.

He displayed no obvious injuries, but he was dead to the world—the noise of forcing the door had not disturbed him in the slightest. He was dreadfully pale and looked half-starved. He must have lost almost a stone from his already lean frame since the last time Watson had seen him.

When he could muster the courage to touch him, Watson found the pulse at his wrist too rapid but steady. His breathing was regular. He lay on top of the stained quilt in just his shirt and trousers. His boots were on the floor next to the bed, but there was no coat or jacket in the room. Watson pulled Holmes’ left shirtsleeve away to reveal the thin skin of his arm, dotted with fresh needle marks.

Watson lifted one of Holmes’ eyelids, then let it drop. When there was no response, Watson moved away to a dusty, tattered armchair, the room’s only other furniture. He closed the door and slid the chair in front of it to keep it closed. Then he sank down to sit, staring at Holmes, waiting. 

Holmes shivered, and Watson felt a grim satisfaction at his discomfort. But when Holmes shook again and made a small noise in his sleep, Watson relented. He rose to take off his overcoat, draping it over Holmes, and the activity was enough to rouse him. He looked up at Watson in obvious surprise and struggled to rise.

“Where on earth have you been?” Watson said.

There was no response. Holmes only gazed at Watson, but it was a relief to see that his eyes were not clouded by any drug.

“I’ve been looking for you for three days.”

Holmes’ eyebrows rose at this. “Three days? My dear Watson, have you forgotten everything I’ve taught you? I did nothing to cover my tracks. I should have thought a trained monkey could have found me in less time than that.”

Watson looked away, gritting his teeth. He wanted to throttle Holmes. This exasperation was familiar, however—easily borne compared with the rising tide of desperate, panicked anger Watson had fought to control since Mrs. Hudson had appeared on his doorstep.

“Oh, Watson…” The tone of Holmes’ voice was maddening: cajoling and dismissive at the same time, as if Watson were a stubborn child. Holmes tugged at his arm until he sat down on the bed. Once he was seated, glaring and waiting, Holmes only stared. Perhaps he finally registered the true level of Watson’s anger and indignation. He frowned, then dropped his head onto Watson’s shoulder. They both froze in place.

Holmes turned his head, and his chapped lips rasped over Watson’s jaw line. Watson blindly flung out his hands to push Holmes away, but he was back again instantly, pressing his face against Watson’s neck.

This had happened once before: a quarrel that grew out of control, becoming more and more heated until Watson had lost his temper and thrown one wild punch. Holmes had easily dodged Watson’s fist, then, tiring of the argument but unable to apologize, had approached and rested his forehead on Watson’s shoulder in just the same way. After a breath of a pause, it had been all grasping hands and Holmes’ hot mouth. There had been little real pleasure in it, only a mad desperation.

Watson never allowed himself to think on it. Never. It had been the night before his wedding.

_No_ , Watson thought. _No, no, no_. But he did not say the words aloud. He was still as a statue as Holmes’ lips ghosted over his neck, sliding up to kiss his mouth. Watson did not allow himself to respond, but his skin burned in the wake of Holmes’ mouth, and their breathing was much too loud in the quiet room.

Watson turned his face away from Holmes’ kisses. Holmes reached for Watson’s waistcoat buttons, but Watson swatted his hands away and tried to rise from the bed. Holmes grabbed his arm, and Watson shoved him away with enough force that he fell back, his head hitting the white-washed wall with a hollow thud. Watson was caught between horror and triumph. Holmes was not injured—Watson had not pushed him so forcefully as that—but he was taken aback.

He remained where he was, watching Watson intently, for several heartbeats. Then he sat up and very deliberately placed his hand over the bulge in Watson’s trousers, undeniable evidence of his arousal. Holmes looked up through his lashes, a knowing smile on his face. Never before had Watson ached so intensely to strike Holmes, to knock the smug expression from his face.

Instead he grabbed Holmes by his collar, driving him down, forcing his face against the coarse wool and the still-hardening flesh beneath it. Holmes closed his eyes and moaned. He turned his head, his lips already parting. Watson could not tear his eyes from the sight of Holmes mouthing at his cock through his trousers.

It was good, so very good. Watson could not breathe. His fingers were still clutched in Holmes’ shirt, and he gave it a yank, eliciting a grunt from Holmes. But it was a pleased, satisfied sound, and hearing it, watching the hungry manner with which Holmes’ lips and teeth worked at the fabric, Watson felt another surge of anger rise in his chest—he did not want Holmes to be so happily eager.

Pulling at Holmes’ collar and pushing with his legs, Watson dumped Holmes onto the floor. He immediately rolled and rose to his knees, but his face again took on that expression: shocked and wounded. Watson felt a thrill to have taken Holmes by surprise, to have forced his own will. He began to pull at the buttons of his trousers and felt another jolt when he saw Holmes’ eyes dart nervously to the movement of his hands.

Once he had freed his cock, Watson grabbed Holmes’ shoulders and drove him down again, groaning when Holmes’ lips closed around him. Holmes’ tongue was astonishing, insistent and teasing by turns, and Watson knew he would not last long. He twisted his fingers in Holmes’ hair, thrusting roughly into his mouth.

Suddenly Holmes pulled away, shaking off Watson’s hands and scrabbling up onto the bed. He leaned in close, but Watson turned his face away so that Holmes’ kisses landed on his cheekbone and forehead. He fell back on the pillows and reached for Holmes’ head, forcing him back down, sighing with relief to feel Holmes’ mouth on him again.

Holmes took Watson’s hands in his own and pulled them away. He slid slowly up and down Watson’s cock, taking him more and more deeply as Watson groaned beneath him, wishing he could keep silent. Watson clutched at the quilt and rocked his hips, holding his breath as he felt the warmth pooling in his belly, quickly returning to the brink.

Again Holmes withdrew, and Watson whimpered at the loss, so desperate now that when Holmes approached for a kiss there was no refusing. Watson wrapped his arms around Holmes’ neck and held him tightly, letting Holmes explore every corner of his mouth with that clever tongue.

“Please,” Watson gasped when Holmes mouth moved away to bite at his neck and lick at his ear. “Holmes, please…”

After another lingering kiss, Holmes moved down Watson’s body. He wrapped one hand around Watson’s cock, then lowered his head, teasing the tip with his tongue.

“Please.” Watson knew he was begging and did not care. Holmes’ mouth pulled away, and Watson thought he would not survive. “Please” he gasped. “I need you… I need you to—”

Holmes plunged downward, taking Watson’s cock deep into his throat. Watson cried out as Holmes’ mouth constricted around his cock, hot and tight. He felt almost delirious with the torturous pleasure of it.

His release hit him like a bolt of lightning. His body arched off the bed, driving his cock deep into the wet heat of Holmes mouth. If felt as if Holmes were luring out his very soul, drawing every ounce of his strength, until he was left gasping uncontrollably, his every muscle trembling. Holmes’ tongue was unrelenting as it coaxed yet another wave out of Watson’s exhausted frame.

“Please—” Watson choked out, and finally Holmes released him. He collapsed onto the mattress, still shaking, fighting for his breath. Holmes crawled up the bed to rest his forehead against Watson’s temple, pressing kisses into his hair and onto his cheek.

Afraid to move, Watson kept his eyes shut, and in a moment heard movement, clothing rustling, and realized that Holmes was stroking himself. His forehead was still pressed to Watson’s, and he was silent. Watson clenched his eyes closed more tightly.

Then Holmes made a sound, a quiet, fractured whimper of frustration. Watson could not bear to hear it and do nothing. He blindly reached for Holmes, grabbing him and pulling him close for a kiss. He plunged his tongue into Holmes’ mouth, holding nothing back. Holmes’ clutched at Watson’s side and then groaned loudly, pulling away from the kiss to gasp, then whisper Watson’s name as he came. Watson kissed him once more, gently this time, holding him as he shuddered and then went still.

Holmes moved to tuck his head under Watson’s chin, but Watson had to turn away, lying flat on his back. Holmes propped himself on one elbow and tilted his head to look down at Watson.

He wanted to hide, not knowing what might be deduced from his expression, but he could only close his eyes. “This was wrong,” he said and immediately regretted having spoken. To allow any conversation at this point was dangerous.

“I think we may at least depend on one another not to go to the police,” Holmes said. Watson did not open his eyes, but he could hear the mocking smirk in Holmes’ voice as he continued. “Or are you concerned for the state of your soul?”

This had nothing to do with sin or offences against the person. Watson simply thought that it could not be right to act with such violent aggression. Watson thought of how he had forced Holmes’ head down and could not stand to look him in the eye. Instead he made himself busy restoring their clothes to order. Holmes remained still, passively allowing Watson’s attentions.

Once they were dressed, it seemed that they could now easily pretend that none of it had happened. The idea filled Watson with an almost overwhelming sadness, weighing him down, pressing him into the damp bedclothes until he felt almost suffocated.

He pulled Holmes close, tugging his overcoat over them both, and curled around him, sliding an arm around his waist. It was a comfort to feel Holmes’ back tight against his chest. Though Holmes was so very thin—Watson knew it was impossible, but even his bones seemed to have shrunk, the breadth of his shoulders and the span of his rib cage both somehow diminished.

Watson pressed his forehead between Holmes’ shoulder blades, breathing in stale tobacco and Holmes’ sweat, both too familiar to be unpleasant. Holmes was already pulling the deep, even breaths of sleep, and Watson forced himself to be still.

Usually he was a light sleeper, trained not only by military and medical experience but by years of living with Holmes, who thought nothing of barging into Watson’s bedroom at any hour should he have need of him. As exhausted as Watson was, however, he had no doubt that Holmes could slip away from him while he slept.

He should stay awake to keep watch, but he knew he could not. He wished for something with which to bind Holmes, to make him stay and keep him safe, but he had nothing. No handcuffs, no rope—then he thought of his watch chain. Fumbling in the dark, he pulled out his watch and detached it. After slipping the watch back into its pocket, he wrapped the chain twice around Holmes’ braces and clipped it to itself. The other end was still secured in his buttonhole. He gave a slight tug, and it held.

It would not truly secure Holmes, but it would at least require him to pause for a moment to disentangle himself, and the movement would likely wake Watson. It seemed a low thing to do, putting a leash on his dearest friend, but finally, Watson was able to sleep.

*****

Watson woke up alone. Holmes had gone, taking the overcoat with him. Watson gritted his teeth until he imagined Holmes wandering the city without its protection. Watson himself would be heading home straightaway, so even if the rain continued he would manage.

Watson’s hand slid across the front of his waistcoat before he remembered. Without his chain, he could not draw his watch out in the usual manner. He must reach into the pocket, which was too small for his hand, and pull the watch out with his fingertips.

The loss of the watch chain should not have bothered him so very much. The chain itself did not actually belong to him. His own had been lost years ago when Holmes had melted a portion of it for some obscure metallurgical experiment.

Watson had been angry then, and Holmes had offered another chain as a replacement. Whether it had been a spare or Holmes had purchased it specifically to appease him, Watson had never known. A loan, Holmes had explained, until he could have Watson’s chain repaired, but the first chain had been forgotten. The newer chain was heavier than what he had had before, but Watson had accepted it without complaint. Wearing it had become a habit, and only now that it was missing did he think of its origin.

It seemed early—there was so little light coming through the grimy window that it looked to be barely past dawn, but Watson had less than two hours to make his way home, wash off the smell of the attic room, and make himself presentable for his first patient of the day. He had to walk several blocks before he could find a cab and then rode halfway to Baker Street before he realised he had given the driver the wrong address.

*****

“Dr. Watson, there’s a man here to see—”

“Sally! You must never enter this room without knocking.” Watson looked at Mrs. Richmond. “I beg your pardon, most sincerely. She’s only just started here.”

The old woman looked at Sally over her spectacles, her mouth pinched. “If she would like to keep her position, then she must learn her place.”

It would have been enough to send a much braver girl than Sally from the room in tears. Watson refrained from commenting on Mrs. Richmond’s unwanted interference, excused himself, and stepped out into the foyer.

“I’m that sorry, sir,” she whispered, swiping at her eyes, then drying her hands on her apron. “I know you’re not to be disturbed when you’re with a patient. But the gentleman said it was a matter of life and death.”

Immediately Watson knew the identity of the gentleman in question. He closed his eyes, trying to restrain himself, but it must have been obvious that he was losing his temper. When he opened them again, Sally was looking at him, sheer terror on her face.

“Please, sir,” Sally whispered.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, girl!” Watson hissed. “I’m not angry with you.”

Sally began to cry again. Watson regretted speaking so unkindly to her.

Mrs. Richmond took it upon herself to come out into the foyer, staring at Sally and Watson with equal disapproval. When she opened her mouth to speak, Watson could be silent no longer.

“Thank you, Mrs. Richmond. I’ll be with you in just a moment, if you wouldn’t mind returning to the study.”

She grew indignant. “Dr. Watson, really.”

Mrs. Richmond did not intimidate him, and it would likely not be terribly difficult to please her. He was certain a flattering apology would completely soothe her ruffled feathers and restore him in her good graces. But he imagined spending the next several years catering to this woman’s whims, courting her favor to ensure her continued patronage, and knew that it would eat away at him.

“Or perhaps this isn’t a convenient time,” Watson said, stepping in front of Sally to shield her from Mrs. Richmond’s view. “Perhaps we could continue our interview another day?”

Mrs. Richmond appeared to be more confused than affronted, but when Watson retrieved her gloves from the narrow table by the door and handed them to her, there could be no misunderstanding. Her face twisted in annoyance, and then she was gone.

Sally was still sniffling. Watson turned and was careful to keep his voice quiet. “Don’t fret, Sally. I’m not angry with you.”

She looked up uncertainly.

“Go wash your face. Then get back to your duties.”

She dashed up the stairs, and Watson was left alone in the foyer, staring at the sitting room door. He did not wish to see Holmes—had spent the last two days doing his level best not to think of him at all.

Watson took a deep breath and made a decision: he would tell Holmes in no uncertain terms that he must leave immediately. He could not be allowed to rush into Watson’s home, disrupting his practice and disturbing the quiet order of his household. Watson reached for the doorknob and entered the room.

He had not thought it would be possible for Holmes to be more thin and pale than he had been in the damp garret, but his skin had become almost translucent, stretched over the bones of his face. He was slumped on the sofa and did not open his eyes when Watson entered. Watson’s overcoat lay on the carpet in a heap.

The last time Holmes had come into that room, he had also arrived unannounced, ready to spirit Watson off to the continent. He had followed eagerly, happy to be so valued, determined to be a staunch partner to Holmes in such desperate circumstances. What a fool he had been.

Holmes had neither wanted nor needed Watson’s help—it was only that some witness was required for his disappearing act. To be lied to in such a manner, then to suffer the grief of believing Holmes dead was too much in itself, and added to that was the feeling of betrayal: the discovery that Holmes had not seen fit to trust him with the truth. 

Without a word, Watson strode across the room and grabbed Holmes’ hand, yanking his sleeve away and examining the white flesh of his arm. The marks there were healing—there was nothing fresh. As he pulled the shirtsleeve down, Watson saw his watch chain, clipped to itself, wrapped about Holmes’ arm like a bracelet.

Watson felt fettered to him as surely as if the other end of that chain were bound to his own wrist. He clenched his hands into fists to stop himself from tearing the chain from Holmes’ arm.

Holmes looked up, his eyes huge and dark. “Who was that?”

Surprise made Watson answer. “Mrs. Edgar Richmond.”

“A patient?”

“A potential patient.”

“But wealthy. And you chased her away?”

Watson sighed. “Yes.”

A small smile crept over Holmes’ face, and Watson’s anger surged up again. He only let out a small huff of frustration and fell into a chair.

It seemed that a very long time passed before Holmes said, almost in a whisper, “Perhaps it’s time to come home now, Watson.”

Watson knew there was no resisting the request—not that it truly was a request. Holmes would not lower himself to ask. Instead he spoke as if he were merely politely reminding Watson of an immutable principle of the laws of physics: Watson would return to Baker Street, just as a stone would sink to the bottom of the sea.

Looking at his crowded bookshelves, the carefully polished furniture, Watson felt unequal to the task of breaking up his household. Letting the servants go. Selling his practice. The tedium of countless decisions: whether to pack each thing or dispose of it. The prospect was exhausting.

Out of the corner of his eye, Watson saw Holmes’ hands move to open the clasp of the watch chain. He held it out to Watson, a pool of silver in his palm.

Watson looked at Holmes, who was still wearing that smile. How dare he look so satisfied? Was Watson to give up so much? Holmes to have his way and sacrifice nothing?

But Watson was forced to ask himself what he would truly regret when he left. What did he have? A struggling practice. Without a family to provide for, he felt no incentive to build it into something more. A tidy house, but only the memory of a wife to share it with. It would be difficult to leave her ghost behind.

Holmes’ smile had disappeared, and his eyes again looked large in his gaunt face. Watson took the chain from him and held it in his own hand for a moment. It was warm from resting against Holmes’ flesh. Holmes’ body went slack, and his eyes closed. He almost melted into the sofa. His relief was palpable, but Watson himself felt strangely numb.

He looked down to slide the bar of the chain through the buttonhole of his waistcoat, pulled out his watch and clipped it on, then slid the watch back into its pocket. The chain’s weight across his belly was a familiar, comforting burden, and Watson sighed as he sank onto the cushions next to Holmes.

The End


End file.
